Dog Day Afternoon
Day 111, Mar 18 2010
Another extremely cold night did not hinder an early start. It was a clear and crisp morning and the sea was as calm as I’d seen it. Today had to be the one if I was ever going to get off the beach. I knew from my observations over the previous days that the waves were at their least destructive on low tide, but low had been at 6:00am, well before the sun had risen.
The best I could do after the necessary hike and cartage down to the beach was a launch at 8:35am. Standing on the beach I felt confident… if I could time it well enough and avoid the bigger set waves, I should get away. I selected a spot where I could see that there was deeper water heading out to sea. A channel that carried out that same water that the incoming waves had recently born in, and in relative terms, a spot that saw less surf.
It was a gut wrenching sprint that extracted everything I had until I was safely out beyond the breaking waves. The equation is a simple one that recognises the benefit of spending the least amount of time possible in the impact zone but it demands an energy sapping dash.
The strength drains quickly with absolutely nothing kept in reserve and you wonder if you’re going to make it as a wave rises in front of you. You have to get over it before it breaks but you’re already at your limit giving it all. The crest threatens to collapse ahead of you but then the bow rises and the icy cold wall of green water slams into your face, doing its best to halt the progress that has already begin to wane, but you break through it and the hull comes crashing down on the other side and there is always a momentary wobble when you wonder if you‘re going to end up in that cold water. Then another waves appears…
I made it but was shaking after the intensity of the exertion and had to gather myself. It can be a fine line between success and failure and on this occasion I’d barely scrambled across that imaginary line.
My hands were numb from the cold and it took some while for things to warm up. There was a real clarity to everything this morning and dare I say it, a touch of winter. I watched as an offshore breeze blew plumes of spray from the tops of those same waves I’d just avoided before the beach gave way to a jagged shoreline.
Day 111, Mar 18 2010
Another extremely cold night did not hinder an early start. It was a clear and crisp morning and the sea was as calm as I’d seen it. Today had to be the one if I was ever going to get off the beach. I knew from my observations over the previous days that the waves were at their least destructive on low tide, but low had been at 6:00am, well before the sun had risen.
The best I could do after the necessary hike and cartage down to the beach was a launch at 8:35am. Standing on the beach I felt confident… if I could time it well enough and avoid the bigger set waves, I should get away. I selected a spot where I could see that there was deeper water heading out to sea. A channel that carried out that same water that the incoming waves had recently born in, and in relative terms, a spot that saw less surf.
It was a gut wrenching sprint that extracted everything I had until I was safely out beyond the breaking waves. The equation is a simple one that recognises the benefit of spending the least amount of time possible in the impact zone but it demands an energy sapping dash.
The strength drains quickly with absolutely nothing kept in reserve and you wonder if you’re going to make it as a wave rises in front of you. You have to get over it before it breaks but you’re already at your limit giving it all. The crest threatens to collapse ahead of you but then the bow rises and the icy cold wall of green water slams into your face, doing its best to halt the progress that has already begin to wane, but you break through it and the hull comes crashing down on the other side and there is always a momentary wobble when you wonder if you‘re going to end up in that cold water. Then another waves appears…
I made it but was shaking after the intensity of the exertion and had to gather myself. It can be a fine line between success and failure and on this occasion I’d barely scrambled across that imaginary line.
My hands were numb from the cold and it took some while for things to warm up. There was a real clarity to everything this morning and dare I say it, a touch of winter. I watched as an offshore breeze blew plumes of spray from the tops of those same waves I’d just avoided before the beach gave way to a jagged shoreline.
The beach gave way.
Real clarity.
The remnants of that same swell that had contributed to my being held hostage at Mokau was still rolling under me when at 11:00pm I took a reading from my GPS and decided to put in an hour’s hard paddling. A part of me thought that Kawhia might be reachable but I had the closer target of Marokopa which was closer by 7.5km at the conclusion of that hour, leaving a further 18km. At 1:30pm I checked again and Kawhia was still over 40km distant and therefore out of reach. I settled on Marokopa, a small settlement nestled on the banks of the river by the same name.
Jagged coastline.
It was a good morning for photos of the coastline.
By 2:00pm I was assessing the river mouth and the surf conditions that marked its entrance. I wondered if I should push on and take advantage of the daylight hours that were left in the day and risk a landing on some remote location and free-camp but the known won out and I decided to tackle the surf in front of me.
I caught a wave and when the inevitable broaching occurred I felt in control as I lent the kayak towards the wave with my paddle blade placed in the foam to brace me. As the wave’s energy dissipated however my compensation proved too much and I capsized, actually rolling towards the wave. It’s a fine line…
I emerged from the upside down, now flooded kayak, still some fifty-odd metres from shore when a following wave ripped the kayak from my grasp. I watched helplessly as it washed towards the shore and away from me. I’d not been faced with such a scenario such as this and had to try to swim into shore burdened with my life jacket and its array of equipment i.e. radio, drink bladder, flare, cell phone, etc, my cap and sunglasses hanging around my neck, and the large neoprene spray-skirt around my waist.
Fortunately I did not sink but bodysurfing in was out of the question. I quickly realised that backstroke was the stroke best suited to my situation but quickly became concerned that the river’s flow was working against me. I was worried and simply threw up my arms to harness the power of the surf each time a broken wave washed over me in an attempt to ensure that I too was carried towards land in the same manner that my craft had been. In this way I made slow but sure progress and after a while was wading towards my upside down kayak washing in the shallows. Mercifully it and I were just to one side of the fast flowing river mouth.
I was cold now and not happy. It did not help that the sun had disappeared behind some clouds. I began pumping out the water from the cockpit whilst fighting the strong tug of the current that threatened to once more pull the kayak from my grip and into the strong flow that poured through the surf and out to sea. Once emptied I walked the kayak along the river’s edge. This was not easy as the sand dropped away steeply and it was very soft. A mistaken step would see me in the clutches of the river. A fine line…
I began making my way up the river against the current.
Once I was far enough inside to avoid being swept back out to sea I jumped in, paddling close to shore to avoid the stronger flowing centre. I kept my eyes peeled for the campground that I’d been told was just “a couple of hundred metres up the river”. I beached and ran up the bank but only saw a few houses so I climbed back in and paddled another few hundred metres before stopping again.
I began to go for a walk before noticing an old woman who’d walked down to look at the strange craft she’d just witnessed paddling up the river. She advised that I paddle further up (against the current), and around the bend where the campground would be readily identifiable.
Quick, before the dog comes!
Another few hundred metres where the going was becoming difficult due to the shallow water and I was sure I’d found it. I’d spied a boat ramp and conveniently located just across the road were three caravans. I beached for what was surely the last time today and walked towards the caravans. The block on which they were located was not much larger than a backyard but this was a small town after all. I could not however see anywhere to check in and the place appeared deserted so I entered the yard next door which displayed signs of activity.
The evil looking pit bull that tore out of the shed, barking ferociously at me, frightened me far more than anything that had befallen me that day. I wanted to let it know that I was not here to threaten it or take over its domain but that idea went out the window as it closed the gap. I still had the paddle in my hands and raised it in as menacingly and threateningly a manner a I could muster as it bore down. In truth I was gripped by terror and it must have been perfectly obvious to anyone who could see me.
At the very moment I believed it was about to lunge and lock its vice like jaws onto a part of my body - the jaws that we all hear and read so much about - a woman began frantically calling it back. This was not looking good. The dog wanted to ignore her but after more yelling and calling it began to back off bit by bit, barking less and less, obviously disappointed that the ferocious attack that it was hardwired it for, was being thwarted.
“Hello!” I offered, trying to sound and appear not in the least bit ruffled, whilst at the same time realising that the paddle which was still held aloft above my head ready to flail, probably gave me away. The dog was still circling and I simply wanted to be away so I don’t know why I asked if the campground I was seeking was the small plot next door. Further up the river I was informed, “You can’t miss it.” “Great, thank you!” I backed away keeping a wary eye on the beast that was so close to surrendering to its genetic impulses and ignoring the woman who was still yelling at it to hold. A fine line…
In this instance I was only too happy to get back into my kayak and move on. I did moments later spot the campground. It was over the road that was beyond the marshes and beyond the fifty or so metres of tidal mud flats between it and me. I soon discovered that the office where I needed to introduce myself, was at the far end of the site, another two hundred metres up the road.
The tide was out... a long way.
My footprints. Still the kayak to go...
It was almost 4:00pm and I was feeling cold and miserable so I was thankful when ‘Yvette‘ offered me the backpackers lodge that was not being utilised for the price of a tent site. I still had to trudge through the that sticky, slippery, and slimy mud, and then along the street, with all my belongings (four trips), and finally the kayak, before the hot shower I so craved was able to be taken.
The mud was slippery before the feet began to sink. Yuk!
I’d been through the surf, paddled the ocean, swum against a river mouth, kayaked against a strong current, trudged through mud for 46.63km… It was not getting any easier. Why hadn’t I listened to those people who’d suggested a tropical island in the Pacific?
Some days just don't finish quickly enough.
